


Make It Up

by gubby



Series: Forgiveness [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Makeup, Stress, apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubby/pseuds/gubby
Summary: Arthur looks for you after the night that you saw him with Mary in Saint Denis.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Series: Forgiveness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970416
Comments: 3
Kudos: 68





	Make It Up

“She’ll be back soon, son, she’ll be back.”

“How’d ya mess up this time,  _ lover boy _ ? Maybe she needs a real man to treat ‘er right!”

“She’s probably fine, Arthur. Maybe she just needs some time alone?”

“What’re you worried about? She does this sorta thing all the time. Like you got any room to talk!”

‘All the time’.

All the time?

All the time!?

… Had he really paid so little attention? Was he so wrapped up in everyone else’s affairs and desires that he hadn’t noticed how often you were gone?

“She likes to go on these little sojourns from time to time. Truth be told, if she didn’t have you to come home to, I worry sometimes that she wouldn’t come back. But I have a feeling there’s trouble in paradise, isn’t there?”

Ouch, Hosea. Fucking ouch. As if Arthur didn’t feel bad enough about being such a shitty boyfriend. 

“Well, knowing her, you’ll only find her when she wants to be found. Awful squirrely, that one. Give her some time.”

Waiting was a lot worse than spending every waking hour looking. Arthur felt like an impotent fool, waiting, but he’d already exhausted himself beyond the threshold of being at all productive. Dutch even ordered him to take some time to himself, time to calm down. Dutch didn’t usually have to make orders like that, especially not with Arthur, and he didn’t like to either. 

It was only when Arthur was trying to empty his mind, deep in the Heartlands, that he saw you again. Camp set up at the edge of a forest a stone’s throw from a sizable stream. It had been nearly a week since that night in Saint Denis. The night where he messed up. You were in your underclothes, sat at the banks and shaded by trees, feet in the water while you fiddled in a journal. Your little cylinder of wax crayons lay in the sandy soil beside you. 

The outlaw watched you for a few moments, transfixed. Arthur really only knew how to draw from life, as he saw it, but you were different. He had always admired your ability to seemingly draw images from only your imagination, to alter reality as you saw it and run it through your own personal filter to make it uniquely yours. It was something you did with everything, really. Nothing he ever saw you do was wholly familiar. It was part of what drew him to you in the first place. He felt you had a sense of spontaneity and identity that he didn’t, and it fascinated him to no end. From the way you folded and packed your clothes to what you kept in your satchel bag, from how you did your hair to how you fought, it was all marvelous to him. 

You once told him, rather somberly, that the very strangeness he admired in you was one that had kept the attentions of men, and most everyone else, from you for most of your life. He had never really understood that, or why you had told him, not until very recently. 

You had been trying, in your own way, to tell him that you had been alone for a very long time. That you saw yourself as unwanted. Really, you were telling him to be careful with you. That you were inexperienced and afraid, and without confidence in this realm, the same realm where his reputation preceded him. 

In your own way, you had begged him to be gentle with you. And instead he felt as if he treated you as carelessly as a rag doll. 

You looked up from your ministrations, right at him. He could almost feel his horse try to rear at the intensity of your gaze. He looked at you, hoping to see the ire that he deserved, but he could not find any. Your eyes were hollow. Like two predators at a clearing, you both stared, waiting for a move to be made. Arthur moved first, dismounting. 

And you just returned to what you were doing. Not quite ignoring him, though it did sting just as bad, you just figured if he had something to say he’d say it with or without your visual attention. And for as much as Arthur thought about finding you, he hadn’t really thought about what he’d say once he  _ did _ find you. Another slick fuckin’ move from the world’s best boyfriend. 

“Hey…”

“Hey.”

“I been lookin’ for ya. Ever since that night.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout what I said t’you.”

“Ok.”

Jesus Christ you were  _ not _ gonna make this easy for him, were you? Not that he deserved it. No, he deserved to be worked like a racehorse. He cursed under his breath at his lack of speaking skills. Here, right before him, was probably the most important thing in his goddamn life. The person he damn well loved. Not often had Arthur actually wished to be a better spoken man, he’d seemed to do just fine without all them flowery words to help him get by, but that was back when all he ever thought he’d be doing was killing and robbing with the occasional lustful liaison in between. Right now, he’d trade just about all his skill with a revolver just for you to understand how he felt and how sorry he really was. 

“I’m sorry about more than that, though. And you deserve better’n the words I’m goin’ to give you.”

He could hear the scrape of wax against the paper slow dramatically. He had captured your attention. Hopefully that had been the hard part. He took a deep breath. 

“I ain’t been good to you. I sincerely regret that. I’ve been so wrapped up in other people’s problems that I wasn’t paying any attention t’you, and on top of that I got suckered into helping someone I know don’t really give a damn about me— not like you do.” He sighed. He felt stupid, undeserving, and inarticulate. But whether or not he deserved to be forgiven, you deserved to know that none of it was your fault. “Wouldn’t blame ya if you never wanted to see my face again. I did somethin’ awful. But if you’ll still have me, I’m willin’ t’do whatever it takes to make you look at me like you used to.”

The last part spilled out of his mouth in a way he was  _ not _ expecting. 

Arthur Morgan was a sight, that much was for sure. Hair mussed, shirt wrinkled and dusty, bags beneath his eyes, his facial hair unkempt. One of the buttons on his shirt was even in the wrong hole. 

You figured he had suffered enough. 

You leaned into him in a way that made him flinch. The cowboy had fully expected some choice expletives from you, and to have to leave empty handed and broken hearted. You huffed a sigh. Arthur didn’t smell fresh, this occurred to the both of you at once as your cheek met his shoulder, but it wasn’t so bad. At least he smelled like  _ him _ , which you liked. 

“Stay here for a few days.” 

“With you?” 

“With me.”

“And what’ll we be doin’, sweetheart?”

“You’ll be making it up to me.”

He could hardly wait. 


End file.
